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Harry Potter: Forging the Flame Ch. 22
🕑 Added 2025-03-29 16:25:56 +0000 UTCChapter 22.
By the second week of October, Harry had to admit it. He’d turned into a bit of a nerd.
Not like Hermione-level, obviously. But he had a schedule now. A rhythm. He got up, went to class, actually took notes, did his homework without someone yelling at him, and spent more than a few evenings testing potions ingredients with Daphne or trying to crack Joren’s stupid coded journal. It was weirdly satisfying.
Charms had settled into something more normal after that wild dueling lesson with Flitwick. They weren’t doing fiery golden birds or molten lava spells anymore, but there was still something cool about finally mastering things like Scourgify, the charm Daphne had first shown him weeks ago. Now he could cast it properly every time. They’d also gone through Tergeo, Orchideous, and most recently Depulso, which had sent Neville’s wand flying straight into a window. Professor Flitwick had looked both proud and mildly alarmed.
It wasn’t flashy stuff, but it still made Harry feel more in control of his magic than ever. Plus, Flitwick clearly knew they wanted more than just textbook spells. Every now and then, he’d sneak in something advanced, drop a hint, or tell a quick story about dueling tournaments and clever enchantments.
Defense Against the Dark Arts, though, was an entirely different story.
Moody didn’t even pretend to follow a syllabus. He just came in, barked something half-insane like “You’re all Aurors now. What’s your plan if the Ministry’s under siege?” and waited to see who panicked first. Every lesson was chaos in the best way. Sometimes they’d talk about curse breaking or old wand duels. Other times he’d dump a box of enchanted objects on the table and tell them to sort out which ones would try to kill them.
Harry had never seen Ron so into a class in his life. That Ministry siege lesson? Ron practically glowed the whole time, laying out strategies, arguing defense points, and even drawing diagrams on the blackboard while Moody nodded like a proud general. It was good. Really good, actually. Harry knew Ron had been kind of off lately, like he didn’t quite know what to do with this new version of Harry who actually liked studying and took things seriously. He’d caught Ron staring at him a few times with that vaguely betrayed look that said, “Why are you turning into Hermione and leaving me behind?”
So yeah, seeing Ron totally in his element, nerding out over battle plans and magical countermeasures? That felt nice. Harry didn’t know how to bring it up, didn’t know how to say, “Hey, I know I’ve changed and it’s weird, but I still want to figure this out with you,” without sounding like a total sap. Ron was Ron. He’d rather wrestle a troll than talk about feelings. Still, Harry was glad he got to see him shine like that.
And then there was the journal.
Joren’s journal had started as just another mystery to solve, something buried in cryptic ciphers and dramatic old wizard language. But over the past few weeks, it had slowly gotten under Harry’s skin. With Hermione’s help, he’d broken through more of the code and unlocked bigger chunks of the text. What he found wasn’t some step-by-step potion recipe or a map to hidden magic. It was… something else entirely. Joren had been a wizard who lost his wife to a Cruciatus Curse, and the journal was his way of clawing through the unknown to get her back. He wrote like someone cracking apart his own brain, one sentence at a time.
The weird thing was, he never once used the words Occlumency or Legilimency. Harry had only found those later, by accident, flipping through an old index of magical disciplines in the library after hearing Snape mutter “mind arts.” Sirius had winced at the mention of them, mumbled something about it being dangerous, and said he’d rather duel a basilisk than think about Snape and mental magic in the same sentence. So that had left Harry on his own, as usual. But when he read Joren’s entries, it was obvious. The man didn’t know the words for it, but he was describing the exact same thing.
Joren wrote about descending into his own thoughts, about walking through memories like they were real places, about the mind being a shifting thing you could get lost in if you weren’t careful. He wrote about fear, about doors that wouldn’t open, voices that didn’t belong to him. And most haunting of all, he wrote about trying to find his wife inside that space. Not her body, not her spirit but her mind.
Harry had read that part twice. Then a third time.
“To reach her, I must first know the shape of mine own soul, for the door I seek doth not yield to wand nor word, but to will alone.”
That was when something clicked. Joren wasn’t just writing a diary. He was building a map of how to step inside your own head and not go mad doing it.
Harry hadn’t told anyone, not yet. But late at night, when the tower was quiet, he’d started trying. Just a few minutes here and there. Sitting still, focusing in, not on spells or thoughts, but on… something deeper. Like trying to listen to silence, or feel his own magic breathing beneath the surface. It didn’t work. Not really. But it didn’t not work, either. Sometimes he thought he felt something, a tug, a weird feeling.
And that was enough to keep him trying.
Harry and Daphne were still stuck in the testing phase, working with a water base and a growing list of maybe-useful ingredients, all while waiting for the goblins to finish processing the basilisk venom. That part of the process was out of their hands, but it hadn’t stopped them from experimenting with smaller combinations on their own. One thing at a time. Isolate the effects. Rule things out.
They weren’t brewing anything real yet. Not technically. But they were getting closer to understanding what would work and what absolutely wouldn’t. They’d already tested five base stabilizers and tossed three out. One turned the mix into a gray paste with the texture of porridge. Another reacted so aggressively it singed Daphne’s sleeve and made Harry dive for the stopper. That one earned the name “Attempt 8C – You Absolute Moron.”
They took notes on everything. Every reaction, every failed combination. And slowly, the list of unknowns started to shrink. Daphne was methodical, good at spotting inconsistencies, and absolutely ruthless when it came to throwing out Harry’s worst ideas. Harry didn’t mind. It made him smarter.
And maybe the biggest surprise of all was that he enjoyed it.
Like, properly enjoyed it.
Not the way Hermione enjoyed memorizing fourteen footnotes or the way Ron enjoyed a Quidditch win. But there was something solid about brewing. Something that made sense. Mix this with that. Heat it just enough. Stir counterclockwise. Wait. Watch. React. It wasn’t easy, but it was satisfying.
And it made Harry wonder, more than once, what it would’ve been like if Snape had actually been a decent teacher. If he hadn’t spent three years making Harry feel like an idiot the moment he walked into the dungeon, would Harry have liked Potions from the start? Because now, with space to think and someone like Daphne pushing him to take it seriously, it felt like something he could actually be good at.
Which was weird.
But also, kind of nice.
It had been a few nights back, sometime after midnight, when the mirror on Harry’s nightstand lit up. He’d fumbled for it in the dark, knocked his Defense essay onto the floor, and muttered, “Sirius Black?” while trying not to wake anyone else up.
Sirius’s face appeared, grinning like he’d just hexed a Slytherin’s robes to sing Celestina Warbeck and legged it down three corridors without getting caught.
“Hey, kid. Remember when you said you wanted to learn more about your family? The sacred this, noble that, all that ridiculous pureblood nonsense?”
Harry had nodded, already suspicious.
“Well,” Sirius said, sounding very pleased with himself, “I arranged something.”
Harry blinked. “Arranged what?”
“A meeting with my cousin Andromeda. She’s smart, sharp, terrifying when she’s annoyed, and somehow still has more class than the rest of the Black family put together. She agreed to talk to you. Give you a crash course in surviving the wizarding upper crust without turning into a pompous git.”
Harry had sat there blinking at him for a solid ten seconds.
Sirius just shrugged. “You’ve got two big names tied to your wand now, Harry. Potter and Black. People are watching. Might as well learn the rules before someone tries to use them against you.”
And now Harry was walking through the castle, just him and the sound of his shoes on the stone floor. It was Wednesday evening and already dark outside.
Sirius had sorted it all out. Talked to Dumbledore, who talked to McGonagall. Now Harry was on his way to a meeting he wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about.
The closer he got to McGonagall’s office, the more his stomach started twisting.
He knocked on her door. Three taps.
“Enter,” came McGonagall’s voice.
Harry pushed it open. She was standing by the fireplace already, her usual expression unreadable but not unkind. She gave him a nod and stepped back to let him through.
Harry walked over, grabbed a pinch of Floo powder from the jar on the mantle, and stepped into the grate.
“Thank you, Professor,” he said, glancing her way.
“Good evening, Mr. Potter,” she replied, and for a second, her eyes softened just a little.
Harry threw down the powder and said clearly, “Three Broomsticks.”
The flames shot up, swallowed him whole, and he was gone.
Harry stepped out of the fireplace brushing soot from his sleeves. The pub was dimly lit and mostly empty, just a few regulars hunched over their drinks, too wrapped up in their own conversations to pay him any attention. It smelled like firewhiskey and old wood, and the warmth of the hearth hit him all at once.
He straightened his robes and walked up to the bar, his heart thumping a bit harder than it should’ve.
Madam Rosmerta looked up from behind the counter, one eyebrow lifting. “Can I help you?”
Harry leaned in a little, lowering his voice. “I think someone’s waiting for me. A meeting.”
Rosmerta studied him for a second, then gave a single nod. “Room three. Up the stairs, first door on the right.”
“Thanks,”
Room three was plain and quiet. White walls, one small window, a round table, and two chairs. No fireplace, no magical trinkets, nothing fancy at all. Just simple, clean, and oddly formal in its simplicity.
Andromeda Black was already seated.
She wasn’t old, probably late thirties, if he had to guess. Her dark hair was swept back, pinned neatly, and there was something about her face that stopped him. Not the elegance, though she had that too. It was the shape of her eyes. The cheekbones.
She looked like Sirius. Or rather, Sirius if he were calmer, quieter, and maybe actually capable of sitting still for longer than five seconds. But the resemblance was there.
“Mr. Potter,” she said, “Come in. Shut the door behind you.”
Harry stepped inside, suddenly aware of how loud his footsteps sounded.
She didn’t stand. Just studied him from her seat, one leg crossed, one hand resting lightly on the arm of the chair. Her robes were deep black with silver trim, clean lines and no fuss. Not a bit of jewelry on her.
He sat in the chair across from her, trying not to slouch.
“I want to be clear,” she said finally, “this isn’t a lesson. Not yet. Just a conversation. I’m here because Sirius asked. But I don’t take students on someone else’s word alone. Especially not when it comes from someone who used to enchant the dining room chandelier to drop soup on our aunt’s head”
“So this is like… an interview?”
She tilted her head, amused. “More like a briefing. I need to know what you want from this. Not him.”
Harry shifted in his seat, already starting to feel awkward.
Andromeda watched the movement, then spoke.
“Straighten your back. Lower your shoulders. Chin up.”
Harry did it automatically, then blinked. “Sorry?”
“How you sit changes how you feel. How you feel changes how you act. And how you act is how people judge you. If you want to carry a name like yours, you need to learn how to do it without flinching.”
He didn’t answer right away.
“So,” she said, sitting back, eyes never leaving his face. “Tell me, Harry. Why are you here?”
Harry hesitated. “I guess I’m here because… I want to understand it. All of it. The name. What it means. What people see when they hear ‘Potter’ or ‘Black.’”
He paused, then added, “And I don’t want to be the last one to figure things out anymore.”
Andromeda watched him for a long moment. Then she gave a quiet, almost amused hum, like she’d been expecting something different and was glad she didn’t get it.
“That’s not etiquette,” she said. “Not really.”
Harry blinked. “No?”
“No,” she said, sitting back. “That’s identity. That’s you trying to understand who you are and what you’re standing in the middle of. Which is much harder, and a lot more interesting, than learning how to make polite conversation at a garden party.”
He didn’t say anything. But he felt it resonate.
“I could teach you the rules, sure,” she went on. “I can teach you how to walk, talk, eat, nod, vanish from a room without looking like you’re running. All of that. But none of it means a thing unless you understand the story you’ve walked into.”
Harry’s brows pulled together. “So where do we start?”
Andromeda gave him a look that was equal parts challenge and invitation. “Where we always start. History.”
She stood up then, just to stretch her legs, walking a slow circle around the table.
“Sacred Families. Old names. Everyone throws that phrase around like it means something clean. But it’s not clean. It’s not noble, either. It’s power. That’s what it is. A web of it. Threaded through favors and bloodlines and debts going back centuries. Magic built on legacy. Influence passed down like heirlooms. It’s not about being the best. It’s about making sure your name stays louder than the rest.”
Harry leaned in a little, listening.
“And the Blacks?” she continued. “We were at the center of it. For a long time. Still are, in some ways. Even after the wars, even after the disgrace. That name still opens doors, and closes others. You carry it now, through Sirius. Whether you want it or not.”
Harry looked down at the table, then back up. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“No one ever does,” she said softly. “But the world doesn’t care. You’ve got two powerful names tied to you. People are already watching. Deciding what kind of man they think you’ll be.”
“So what do I do?” Harry asked. “Just play along?”
Andromeda stopped walking and looked at him, really looked at him. “No,” she said. “You learn how to walk into a room like you belong there. And then you decide what to do with that power. Not because they told you to but because you understand it.”
Andromeda pulled out her chair and sat again.
“All right,” she said, almost to herself. “Let’s start with the basics.”
“You hear ‘Sacred Twenty-Eight,’ and it sounds official, right? Like some ancient decree. It’s not. It’s barely over a hundred years old. Some pompous idiot named Cantankerus Nott sat down, got out a quill, and made a list of the families he thought were still ‘pure’ enough to count. That’s it. That’s the whole origin story.”
She gave a small snort, like she couldn’t believe people still took it seriously.
“People love categories. They love feeling chosen. ‘We’re on the list, so we must be important.’ ‘They’re not, so they’re beneath us.’ Easy. Clean. Completely made-up.”
Harry didn’t say anything. He just watched her. You could tell she really cared about this stuff.
“It wasn’t about who had the most magic. Or who did the most for the world. It was about blood. Lineage. Who your great-great-grandfather married. Who he didn’t marry. The Potters? Left off the list. Too many ties to Muggle-borns. Too many friends in the wrong places.”
She looked at him now, like she was weighing something.
“You probably think that’s a bad thing. Being left off.”
He shrugged. “I dunno. I didn’t know there was a list at all until like… a month ago.”
Andromeda huffed a quiet laugh, shook her head. “Better that way.”
“My family — the Blacks — went the other direction. Full speed. Obsessed over the list. Over bloodlines, marriages, heirs. It wasn’t about love. It was about strategy. Power. My parents raised us like chess pieces. Bellatrix believed every word of it. Narcissa learned to survive it. And me?” She shrugged. “I married a Muggle-born and got burned off the family tree for it.”
Harry blinked. “Wait, literally burned off?”
“Have you seen that tapestry at Grimmauld Place?” she asked dryly. “It’s not metaphorical.”
Harry winced.
“Anyway,” she went on, “that’s the real history of it. Not noble, not sacred. Just… ego. Codified. Wrapped in pretty language. It gave people a sense of identity, something to hold onto when the world was changing too fast. But the longer you let that kind of thinking simmer, the uglier it gets.”
She tapped a finger against the table.
“First, it’s ‘We’re better than them.’ Then it’s, ‘They don’t belong.’ Then it’s, ‘They’re the reason everything’s going wrong.’ That’s how it spreads. That’s how you end up with someone like Voldemort spreading blood purity nonsense.”
Harry looked down at his hands. “And people believed him.”
“They wanted to believe him,” she said. “Because he told them they were special. That’s all it takes, sometimes.”
~~~~~~~~
“…she’s not what I expected,” Harry said, chewing on a piece of bread. “Not even close.”
Ron raised an eyebrow. “What, no creepy robes and ancient curses?”
Harry snorted. “Nah. I just thought she’d be… I dunno. Posh. The kind of witch who drinks weird tea and corrects your posture.”
Hermione perked up. “And?”
“She’s sharp,” Harry said. “Like, really sharp. Talks like she already knows what you’re about to say, but still listens. And she doesn’t mess around. It’s not just ‘here’s how to hold your fork properly,’ it’s like… here’s the world, and here’s how it actually works.”
Ron stabbed a sausage. “Makes sense. She ditched her family and married a Muggle-born. That takes guts in that lot.”
“She talked about the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” Harry went on. “Said it was a joke, basically. Some Nott bloke made a list of families he thought were ‘pure enough,’ and that was it.”
Ron rolled his eyes. “Cantankerus Nott. Dad hates that guy. Used to send letters to the Prophet whining about ‘dirty blood in public offices’ and hiding behind fake names.”
Hermione looked up, surprised. “Wait, your family was on the list too, weren’t they?”
“Yeah,” Ron said, a bit grim. “Weasleys are old, all right. Not fancy, but old. Thing is, we didn’t stay how they wanted. Started marrying who we wanted, backing Muggle rights, working regular jobs. We basically became the face of what they hate.”
Harry blinked. “So that’s why people call you blood traitors.”
“Exactly,” Ron said. “We were supposed to be the ‘right kind’ of purebloods. Then we went and ruined their neat little ranking system.”
Hermione frowned. “That’s awful.”
Ron shrugged. “Eh. Mum says better to be called a traitor than to act like one.”
Harry grinned a little. “That sounds like her.”
“She’s not wrong,” Ron said. “And hey, at least it means we don’t get invited to any of those creepy old family dinners.”
Harry laughed. “Andromeda said the Potters didn’t even make the list. Too many Muggle-born friends.”
Ron smirked. “So basically, both our families pissed off the same snobs. I like it.”
There was a small pause while they all chewed in companionable silence.
Then Hermione asked, “So… when are you seeing her again? And how often?”
Harry set down his goblet. “Every Sunday morning. Just me and her. She said it’s not lessons exactly, just... figuring things out.”
Hermione smiled. “Sounds like it might be the best kind of lesson.”
Before he could reply, something swooped low over the Gryffindor table. A flash of bronze feathers and a heavy envelope dropped right onto his mashed peas. Harry blinked, wiped a bit of gravy off the wax seal, and turned it over.
It had the Gringotts emblem stamped in gold.
Gringotts Wizarding Bank
Assets Recovery & Special Claims Division
To: Mr. H. J. Potter
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that preliminary processing of the basilisk carcass recovered from the Chamber of Secrets beneath Hogwarts School has been completed. In accordance with Gringotts’ Asset Discovery Protocols (Goblin Code Revision 1317, Clause XIII), our teams have conducted a full materials audit and secured all viable resources under your name.
The following assets have been extracted and are currently held in reserve pending your decisions regarding dispersal or retention:
1. Basilisk Venom (Stabilized)
Quantity: 11 vials (Grade-A, Potent)
Market Value: 14,000 Galleons per vial (subject to fluctuation; highly restricted due to dark magic classification)
Notes: Viable for use in advanced cursebreaking, dark artifact destruction, and high-tier potioneering
Storage: Vaulted under Category 3 Hazardous Substances
2. Basilisk Hide (Cured)
Usable Sections: 8.5 square meters
Market Value: Approx. 3,000 Galleons per square meter
Notes: Potion-resistant, durable, and highly sought after for protective equipment and specialty enchantment applications
3. Basilisk Fangs (Uncharmed)
Quantity: 17 intact fangs
Market Value: 900 Galleons per fang
Notes: Suitable for potion work, carving, and enchantment. One fang has been marked for historical archiving unless otherwise instructed.
4. Skeletal Material
Marketable Bone Segments: 5.7 meters (spinal arc, ribs, jawbone)
Estimated Value: 6,000–8,000 Galleons total
Notes: Nontraditional wand core material; valuable for alchemical or artisan crafting purposes
5. Magical Residue Collection
Harvested: Crystallized latent magic collected from Chamber surfaces
Appraised Value: Pending final purity analysis; estimated between 2,000–4,000 Galleons
Total Estimated Asset Value: 190,000–210,000 Galleons
You are hereby invited to attend a formal consultation regarding the handling of these assets. The meeting will take place this Saturday at 11:30 a.m., within the Assets & Legacy Wing of Gringotts Bank, Diagon Alley. A senior goblin from our Salvage & Legacy Division will oversee the proceedings, along with your assigned Claims Liaison, Ragnok.
Should you wish to invest, enchant, barter, or liquidate any portion of the materials, you may present your intentions at this time. If legal or magical counsel is desired, please arrange their attendance in advance.
Please confirm your availability by owl no later than Friday evening.
Congratulations on your successful recovery, Mr. Potter. This claim is among the most significant of its kind in recent Gringotts history.
Yours in gold and stone,
Griphook Ironquill
Senior Account Handler
Gringotts Assets Recovery Division
Harry reread the letter, eyes darting over lines like “11 vials (Grade-A, Potent)” and “pending your decisions regarding dispersal or retention.” It didn’t feel real.
He slid the parchment across the table, nudging it toward Ron and Hermione. “Here. Just read it.”
Ron’s eyebrows shot up the second he hit the venom line. “Bloody hell. That’s… that’s a fortune.”
Hermione didn’t even blink. “Over two hundred thousand Galleons, easy.”
“Yeah,” Harry muttered. “And I don’t want to sell most of it.”
Ron glanced up, confused. “You don’t?”
Harry shook his head. “The venom’s the reason I filed the claim in the first place. Me and Daphne, we’ve been waiting on it. For the project.”
Hermione gave a quick nod. “Right. The potion. You said the formula needed a magical toxin to stabilize it.”
“Exactly. We’ve tested everything else that might even come close. But this… this is what we need.”
“And the hide?” she asked.
Harry shrugged. “Could be useful. For shielding, maybe. Or ritual work. Dunno yet.”
Ron leaned back a bit. “So what about the rest of it? The bones and crystals and stuff?”
“That’s what I need to figure out,” Harry said. “I want to talk to Sirius first. See what the smart move is.”
Hermione folded the letter neatly, like it was a contract she was tempted to edit. “Well. You’ve got a few days. Meeting’s not until Saturday. Plenty of time to think it through.”
Harry nodded, though his fingers were drumming the table now. “Yeah. I just didn’t expect it to feel this… big.”
Ron stabbed his roast potato with unnecessary force. “Mate, it’s a basilisk. It was always gonna be big. ”
Hermione tilted her head. “Maybe you should talk to someone. Like, an expert. Gringotts must have people who deal with magical materials or rare assets or… whatever this counts as.”
Harry frowned. “You think there’s actually a job for that?”
Ron shrugged. “Dunno, but sounds right. I mean, Dad works in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, and that’s like, half his day spent dealing with cursed toasters. So if there are people paid to sort out flying kettles, there’s definitely someone out there getting paid to figure out what to do with a giant murder snake.”
Hermione nodded slowly. “That’s kind of what I meant. Not just bankers. Like… magical craftsmen. People who know how to use this stuff properly.”
Harry leaned back in his seat, thinking. “Yeah. Might be worth asking. I’ll talk to Sirius first, see what he thinks.”
Ron forked another bite of stew. “He probably knows someone. ”
Harry glanced back at the letter. “Still feels mad. Like one minute I’m just trying to get through Potions without blowing something up, and now I’ve got a vault full of basilisk bits and goblins inviting me to meetings.”
“Well,” Hermione said gently, “that’s kind of been your whole life, hasn’t it?”
Ron raised his goblet in mock salute. “To Harry. Always neck-deep in chaos.”
Harry snorted. “Cheers.”
Comments
MASTERCHEIF1229 .
Awesome story so far! I can't wait for the next chapter!
